she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.
Charles BukowskiTag: chicago
I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray.
why don't we go back out there and tell them what happened?
because nothing happened except that everybody has been driven insane and stupid by life. in this society there are only two things that count: don't be caught without money and don't get caught high on any kind of high.
(Night Streets of Madness)
Tag: life depressing
Hay cosas peores que
estar solo
pero a menudo toma décadas
darse cuenta de ello
y más a menudo
cuando esto ocurre
es demasiado tarde
y no hay nada peor
que
un demasiado tarde.
Tag: bukowski
The shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow wings through that skin. Little blades, she was helpless.
Charles BukowskiI lapsed into my pathetic cut-off period. Often with humans, both good and bad, my senses simply shut off, they get tired, I give up. I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don’t want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta.
No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there.
Tag: hollywood charles-bukowski
and if I have any advice to give to anybody it’s this: take up watercolor painting.
Charles BukowskiTag: bukowski
Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
Charles BukowskiThe whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can´t save it.
Charles Bukowskiwszystko jest stratą czasu, chyba że człowiek pieprzy się w najlepsze, tworzy w najlepsze, ma się jak najlepiej albo zmierza w kierunku ułudy pod tytułem miłość i szczęście. Wszyscy kończymy w gnojówce porażki - czy nazwiemy to śmiercią czy błędem.
Charles BukowskiTag: life-and-death
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